


Look Around You

by Eligh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Delayed Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People don't often get second chances, except when they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Around You

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this after re-watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and getting [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrVoG7zTaxI) burrowed into my brain. It actually doesn't have a lot to do with the movie, but credit the inspiration and all that.

It was 3:27am on a Tuesday, and Phil Coulson was 31 years old.

He’d been working at SHIELD for two years now, and loved every second of it. He loved bantering with Nick in the main commissary under the guise of thinly-veiled insults, loved terrifying the junior agents with his competence and cool head, loved hearing the rumors floating around their building about him, and especially loved the work they did.

He’d _liked_ his work at the NSA, and the Rangers before that, because Phil liked being useful. But SHIELD combined said usefulness with a healthy appreciation for things like superheroes and aliens, which (despite his carefully constructed forgettable appearance) really make Phil’s pulse race. It’s fascinating work, something new every day, and the _skills_ on some of the people he’s met—

Incredible.

Take, for instance, the man standing awkwardly in the center of Phil’s tiny apartment living room/kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck and base of his close-cropped hair with one oddly-calloused hand. Oddly-calloused, Phil supposed, because while many of the people Phil’s met in the past several years had gun callouses, none of them (save this particular man) had string-and-arrow callouses.

He’d known Barton for about four months at this point, ever since he slid into a booth across from the kid (not really a kid, he’s in his early twenties, but when he’s nervous he looks younger) in a diner in San Francisco and offered him the choice of prison or a job. Barton had bolted, for all appearances wordlessly choosing prison, but Phil’d been patient, just paid the bill and sauntered out. He’d checked into a hotel room (on the fifteenth floor, he might add) and waited. Two days later he received a nighttime visitor via said fifteenth floor window, and four hours later was on one of SHIELD’s jets, headed back to New York with one additional passenger.

Phil’d actually been on the receiving end of one of Nick’s tirades for that stunt (‘ _What you do **mean** you let. him. go? You got any idea the kinda shit this kid is capable of? I told you to get me an **asset** , Coulson, and I meant **get** me a motherfucking **asset**._ ’) when he’d called that one in, but the gamble inevitably paid off. It often did. Phil was just good like that.

Back in New York, he’d watched from a distance while the SHIELD trainers put Barton through the paces, a constant shadow in his periphery. He didn’t participate in his vetting directly (if asked, Phil would say he was more of a loss-prevention and acquisitions sort of man, not a handler) but judging by the way Barton immediately snapped to focus whenever Phil dropped by to observe unobtrusively, he knew Phil was there.

Phil was actually quite certain that Barton had also put two and two together and realized that it was Agent Coulson directing the cafeteria workers to give him just a hint more of food, enough to help beat off the lingering malnutrition. Likewise, it was Agent Coulson’s doing that set up actual archery targets on the range, and adapted the moving obstacle course to something that was legitimately challenging.

Agent Coulson did it, because Agent Coulson knew everything.

Except, apparently, just what Barton was doing waiting for him outside his apartment building tonight when he’d gotten off work. Still, he’d let them both in, at which point (now) they seem to have stalled.

“You want a drink?” Phil asked him.

Barton shook his head, but then corrected himself, saying, “Uh. Water? Maybe. If you have water.”

Phil fought down a grin and went to his fridge. It was mostly bare inside (not unusual) but he was pretty sure he had a couple plastic water bottles. “I’ve got water.”

“Water, then.” Barton grasped it the moment Phil offered it up, cracking the lid and taking a long drink. And when he finished, Phil was glad to note, he seemed a little calmer.

“All right, Specialist,” Phil said. “Care to share what you’re doing here?” He hesitated, then added, “I should point out that you’re breaking protocol by approaching me at home, but I’d also like to add that I don’t particularly care.”

Barton nodded and set down the water bottle. “Will you call me Clint? This isn’t really work-related.”

Phil blinked. “Sure. Clint.” He could roll with this.

Another nod, and then Barton sort of… shifted. He blinked, and when he met Phil’s gaze, his eyes suddenly had all sorts of intent. His shoulders simultaneously rolled back and somehow transmitted smolder. And then—then he stepped forward. There was absolutely no way for Phil to misinterpret this and (god but it was unprofessional) he really didn’t care. He wasn’t blind, after all, and was a red-blooded man. He couldn’t be blamed for the gooseflesh that rippled down his arms and back, for the way his breath caught in his throat.

Time abruptly slowed down, breaking all sorts of laws of the universe, and physics, and, and. Wow.

Instead of doing what he _should_ have done and step back, Phil watched in this slow motion state as Barton’s hands reached out, smoothing first along his shoulders and then running down the lapels of Phil’s slightly work-creased suit. He sucked in a breath when Barton moved even closer, and let out a small whine when Barton—when Clint—tilted his head and kissed him.

Clint’s mouth was hot; he tasted vaguely like the bagel Phil knew he’d had for a snack around 3:00 this afternoon, and sharp mint from the gum Phil’d seen him spit out in the trashcan in the hall.

He didn’t even consider not kissing back.

Clint made a pleased noise at the back of his throat and Phil wobbled. Wobbled enough, in fact, that he tipped sideways and landed hard against his kitchen counter, breaking their kiss. He laughed a little self-consciously, but Clint just smiled at him, soft and sweet, and moved in again. This time, though, Phil stopped him with a hand to his chest.

And—and— _chest_. Phil’s gesture, meant as a gentle restraint, abruptly turned covetous; he spread his fingers and let them feel the hard muscles and thrumming heartbeat. He stared down at where his hand was burning hot through Clint’s thin t-shirt and at the periphery of his vision, he saw Clint smile.

“You like,” he said, and Phil nodded dumbly.

It took him a moment to collect himself to offer up a coherent answer. “Yes, Clint.” He swallowed, dragging his eyes up to look Clint properly head-on. “Why?”

“Seriously, sir?” Clint’s grin shifted to something more predatory. “You’re not exactly hard on the eyes yourself.” The smile slipped a little, then, no less bright but perhaps a touch more honest, like wasn’t trying to just say the right thing. “And you’ve been. You gave me a chance. Got me out of a bad place. It’s the least…” he trailed off, his blue eyes too big for his still-too-skinny face. 

That. That was not what Phil had been wanting to hear. He snatched his hand away, and then immediately felt bad when Clint’s face fell. Still. He couldn’t—

Phil leaned back against his counter, putting a hair’s breath of distance between them. “You think you owe me.”

“Well, yea.” Clint looked confused, and made to move forward again. He stilled, though, when Phil shook his head.

“This isn’t…” All sorts of thoughts flooded Phil’s mind. Was this how Clint thought you should repay your debts? What kind of life had he had if that was the case? “You don’t owe me anything,” he said softly. “Especially not… not like this. You can’t. You don’t _sleep_ with someone because you feel indebted.” He sagged against the counter a little; he hadn’t felt so off-center in a long time.

And Clint was staring at him, his confusion still evident. “Sir…”

That clinched it. Phil straightened up, his hand reflexively going to his throat to straighten his tie. ‘ _Sir_.’ Of course. Clint wasn’t the type of man to want someone like Phil, not by a long shot. And Phil wouldn’t take a pity-fuck or a thank-you-fuck or whatever it was Clint had had in mind.

“Barton,” he said, and was impressed by the smooth, unaffected sound of his voice. “This isn’t how SHIELD works. You want to thank me for bringing you on?” Clint nodded slowly and took a step back. Phil twitched up the corners of his lips, pulling out one of his best bland I’m-Just-A-Suit-Don’t-Mind-Me smiles.

“All I ask is that you perform to your utmost ability.” He paused to give his next statement appropriate weight. “What I mean is, don’t miss, Specialist.”

Clint still looked a little dazed, but at the mention of his aim, his eyes sharpened. “I never do.”

“Good,” Phil said. He stepped around Clint and touched his shoulder very lightly, smoothly guiding him around as well and walking them both back to the door. Clint let himself be led with ease; too easy, in fact, and Phil rather thought that Clint didn’t quite realize what Phil was doing. This thought was validated when a moment later, he looked extremely startled when he suddenly found himself in the hallway outside Phil’s apartment.

“Goodnight, Specialist,” Phil said, and made to shut the door. Clint, of course, was too fast. His brain seemed to have finally caught up to the fact that he’d just been rather unceremoniously escorted out.

“Wait, Phil.” He caught the edge of the Phil’s door just as it was about to close. Phil paused, affecting an expression that said ‘polite curiosity.’ It was one of his best.

Clint hesitated for a moment, then asked, “What if it wasn’t, uh, debt?”

Phil did not allow himself a reaction, even though something like hope curled up, sour in his throat. He pushed it down, because the likelihood of that ever happening—best not to think about it.

“It would still be inappropriate,” he said. Clint slouched a little at that, and for some insane reason, Phil found himself adding, “If it isn’t, ever. Then perhaps we could revisit this discussion.”

Clint just stared at him for a moment, then shot him an aggravating smile and walked off. Phil stayed frozen for a beat, (because why had he just said that?) and then shut the door with a soft click.

“Dammit,” he said, and scrubbed his face with his hands.

~

Time passed.

Phil moved first up, and then laterally, and then up again in SHIELD’s organizational structure, until one day he found himself with the official title of Chief Fieldworks Agent and the unofficial title of the newly-minted director’s One Good Eye.

He ran only the most difficult, dangerous, and interesting ops, and gained an extensive knowledge of terrorist organizations with improbable names, and even more improbable agents, like HYRDA and AIM and the Ten Rings. He oversaw the opening of several specialty prison complexes, and watched them fill with extra-normal humans, and later, with beings that were in no way human any longer. He kept note of gamma radiation trials and began to liaise regularly with his counterpart at SWORD. He loved his job even more than he had before.

It was, of course, never easy. Phil wouldn’t have it any other way.

He watched from a distance as Barton grew with the organization as well. He watched as that scared kid became a competent agent, someone trusted implicitly by the organization he worked with. There was, distressingly, a bit of a hiccup when the Black Widow mission came around, but that ended up working well for everyone. Luckily. Later, he was able to work with Barton, and then Romanov, as a seamless unit. Even when Phil stopped directly handling assets in the field and began directing other field agents with assets underneath them, he still set aside time to work with solo missions with Barton and Romanov.

There was something cathartic about the three of them, out in some remote location, the dust of foreign countries under his fingernails, Barton’s laugh in his earpiece, Natasha’s well-placed barbs. It loved it. He loved them.

He loved Clint.

Of course, he was still Agent Philip Coulson, and so he did absolutely nothing about it. It would be beyond unprofessional, and Barton had never again showed anything that could be construed as blatant interest, not after that denial in Phil’s apartment so many years ago. Yes, sometimes he looked a little too long in Phil’s direction, or breathed a little too shakily when Phil’s location was compromised, or looked a little too relieved when Phil stepped calmly away from a collapsing building, brushing rubble from his suit.

But Barton had never again shown up late at night and unexplained to Phil’s apartment, and Phil stopped waiting for something so unbelievable as that a long, long time ago.  Phil had a new apartment now, one Barton (and Romanov) had been in many times, one Barton had bled in and slept in and drank in and just—just _been_ in, and Phil had never once been pushed up against that new apartment’s kitchen counter and kissed, had his knees made to wobble. He tried not to think about it, and was generally successful (for a given value of success).

His life was happy, if not exactly all that he wanted.  

And then an alien came and took Barton—took Clint—away and unleashed terror against Phil’s home. Phil watched as the man he’d spent the last ten years falling more and more in love with killed his friends and comrades, his eyes blank, and sightless, and impersonal.

He hadn’t really had a choice after all that, because a world without Clint wasn’t really a world worth anything. And then he’d heard the ‘shoot to kill’ order and knew that Clint was as good as gone. So he had to try _something_ because despite the fact that Phil’s world was crashing around his ears, Loki was a bully and a liar, and Phil hated bullies and liars.

He died with a hole in his heart, and it hurt, but it was acceptable. He hoped Clint’s would be as quick. His was a purposeful death, and that was all that Phil had ever wanted his end to be.

And he also got to shoot that alien bastard. So that was good. 

~

“You told me,” Clint said, and Phil jumped, fingers tightening against papers on his desk, “that if it ever wasn’t debt, we could revisit this conversation.”

Phil willed his heartbeat to slow, and took a deep breath. “What are you talking about?” He technically wasn’t supposed to be on the helicarrier, actually technically hadn’t been released from medical. He still had the IV jack in his hand, but it wasn’t connected to anything. Magic and luck, that was what it was. Magic and luck.

Phil’s chest ached. He straightened papers aimlessly, righting corners and angling them at 90°, shuffling through months of back paperwork. Dying had really messed with the whole organization scheme he’d had going. It was annoying.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Clint growled, closing Phil’s office door behind him and advancing, lion-like. A prowl. Phil—Phil didn’t want to deal with that.

“Enlighten me.” He turned his back and sat heavily in his chair; his legs were still weak. Atrophied. It would be a long time before he was back in the field. Maybe never, actually.

“I still owe you,” Clint told him, now resting one hip on the edge of Phil’s desk. “I owe you more than words could ever say. But it’s not debt that makes me want you.”

“Cut the shit, Barton,” Phil snapped, already tired of this game. “You thought I died, you want to make a sick man happy. It’s still debt, it will _always_ be debt. We’re stuck in this, this circle. You know it and so do I, so let’s not screw around and pretend we can be happy. There’s no picket fence and retirement for us. There’s just things you owe me and things I owe you and _death_ , Clint. It’s been, what, a decade of us knowing each other? It won’t work. It’s doomed.”

“I love you,” Clint said, utterly matter-of-fact. He crossed his arms, looking pissed, and of course he was. Hawkeye, ladies and gentlemen, the only person in the world who would admit to loving someone and be angry about it. “I love you, and you died.”

“Sorry.” Phil was not particularly sorry. “It wasn’t about you.”

Clint shook his head. “That’s a fucking lie, Phil.” He pursed his lips. “You’re telling me that if I’d been there at your side, you still would have taken on that psychopath? If I’d’ve been there to help convince Stark, or Banner, or even Rogers? I don’t think shit would have gone down the same. I think you’re lying to yourself.”

Phil dropped his head into his hands. “What are we even arguing about?”

There was a gentle touch on his shoulder, a trailing of fingers up his neck, brushing against his cheek. “We’re talking about how you saw me gone and then you died, and how now we’re both back. And how I love you, and how maybe we do owe each other debts, but that can’t matter anymore because we’ve been given this second chance and I want to do it right.”

“You were never really interested,” Phil objected into his palms. The IV dug in, sharp and throbbing. “You were—”

“I was always interested, idiot.” The fingers tightened for a moment in Phil’s hair, then loosened and pried away his fingers. “You just don’t see it as well as I do. It might have changed over the years, yea, but it’s never been gone. Always right at the surface.” He kneeled, then, his face level with Phil’s. “I was interested from the first night. I climbed up fifteen floors for you. Do you know what a pain in the ass it is to climb up fifteen floors with a knife wound and no rope?”

“It’s a pretty big pain in the ass,” Phil conceded, and tightened his fingers around Clint’s.

“Huge.” Clint ducked his head and smiled.

~

It was 9:54pm on a Saturday. Phil Coulson was 42 years old, and had been released from medical watch for six months.

He still worked for SHIELD. His hair was a little thinner, and starting to grey, finally, at his temples. His eyesight was worse, and his scars were many. He worked exclusively wrangling extra-normal field ops, and was assigned to oversee the Avengers Initiative on the rare occasion that Earth was threatened with something enough to call for them to assemble.

He loved his job, loved snarking with Fury on the helicarrier’s bridge, loved his entirely-against-regs betting pools he set up with Jasper, loved battling with Maria over the tiny details of day-to-day SHIELD life. He still got to interact with superheroes on the daily, and had friends on the teaching staff at Professor Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngers. He had a group of superheroes who treated him like family.

One of the aforementioned superheroes, actually, was standing easily in his expansive kitchen, hand rubbing the back of his neck and the base of his close-cropped hair with one oddly-calloused hand.

“So,” Clint said, nerves darting across his face. Phil watched him, knowing exactly where this was going. He hadn’t touched Clint, other than professionally, since that day—almost nine months ago, now—in his office. They’d talked, though, because rushing into this was clearly the last thing they were about to do.

Clint, however, was apparently done waiting, having shown up on Phil’s doorstep as of ten minutes ago. He’d been anxious, so Phil’d handed him a bottle of water from the fridge, and Clint had relaxed. It felt like déjà vu, and that was okay.

The water bottle was half-empty and set down on Phil’s kitchen table, now.

Clint took a breath and apparently decided that he didn’t want to wait any longer. He advanced with intent, with pure smolder, and pressed Phil back against his kitchen counter. “I still owe you, you know,” he said, and pressed a kiss to the side of Phil’s neck.

Phil leveled him his best glare. “You’re not funny. You think you’re funny, but you are absolutely not.” Clint clearly took this as an offence, and kissed his displeasure into Phil’s mouth. It was, strangely, an extremely effective argument.

“I’m goddamn hilarious.” Clint’s grin, when he pulled away, was feral and kiss-swollen and everything depraved that Phil’d been dreaming about for years. His knees felt weak, and he wobbled a little against the counter. He reached up and held tight to stabilize himself, fingers digging into Clint’s cheek, the back of his neck. Clint’s face turned serious.

“I don’t care about debts anymore, Phil. I need you. Can’t be without you.”

“Change your heart,” Phil murmured.

“Never,” Clint told him, solemn like he so rarely was. “People don’t get second chances, Phil, but we do.”

Phil nodded, slow and a little jerky. “Yeah,” he said. “Yes, Clint.” Clint smiled against his mouth.

“That’s all I needed.” 


End file.
